Holding On-Dedication and Poem by Me

Dedication (Scroll down and skip to the poem if you want-remember to click "read more")

Despite the pain I deal with on a daily basis, I never forget that I am undeniably fortunate. According to the Migraine Research Foundation, over 90% (other estimates say 93%) of people with migraines cannot function normally in society during them. When I try to calculate the statistics of my situation, accounting for the fact that I have migraines many, many days a month, as well as severe to moderate headaches most of the other days (which also can reduce productivity by up to 50 percent or more)...let’s just say... the vast majority of people with my level of Chronic Migraine Syndrome can’t function in society. And, of course, there are people with different types of chronic pain in the same situation. Those people lose everything because of something they can’t control. I know several people through online migraine communities who have had to go on disability and quit their jobs. Some of them can hardly ever can get out of bed to wash their hair anymore.

Yet, here I am, going to school, an honors student. It’s not very easy, but I can do it. I don’t think this because I have some sort of strength the 90 plus percent of people in my situation are lacking. In fact, I think they are stronger. I don’t think many people realize the kind of strength it must take to keep holding on through days of crippling illness, the strength that the so called “invalid” must have. I’m very, very lucky, and there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think of those who aren’t.

This is a major reason I am pushing so hard for advocacy for the conditions of chronic pain sufferers—I try to be an advocate for those who can’t be one for themselves, but I wish I could do more. If you are one of those people, my heart goes out to you. I think you are very, very strong, stronger than I can imagine, and this poem is for you.

Holding On

By: Blog Admin

A woman lies in bed as the sun rises and sets in

endless circles around the sky. Agony pierces her back.

She grits her teeth against the pain.

Others shake their heads at the woman in bed as she

“lets” the  world slip by outside her ashen

bedroom walls. They imagine her—leaning

 against a pillow of government dollars, closing

 her eyes, and inviting pain to swirl through her back.

They imagine her letting go.

But the woman rolls to rest her face in the sun beams

streaming through the window, ignoring

 the pain slicing down her spine. She closes her eyes and weaves

herself a net of thoughts, plucking and tugging each strand

to bridge the chasms in her life:

Iris’s crowned in dew. The laughter dancing

in her daughter’s eyes

during her most recent visit, when

she promised to bring ice cream—butterscotch

adorned with sprinkles—next time.

The symphony of crickets and owls that croon

outside her window when dusk falls. The caress

of sun warming her skin.

The tendrils of thought anchor

 her. She stretches her arm into the air and curls

 her fingers, as if to grab the thoughts and pull

herself out of bed. Pain

jolts through her.

She drops her arm.

 Underneath the sheets, she closes her fingers into fists,

hanging onto the ropes, golden thoughts and pain mingling

as she smiles and clenches her fingers, clutching

the memories to her chest and refusing to let go.

P.S. This poem focuses on a woman, but there are many men (and even girls and boys) in this situation as well—I just picked one gender for convenience.